


After the Fall

by kazvl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Sherlock's Return, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:37:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is worried about Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilbasthet](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lilbasthet).



> I know I should be working on the next chapter of the Real Thing (and I am), and I'm very conscious that I still owe lilbasthet a story for her bid to support the LGBT switchboard back in October (oh crumbs, I hadn't realised it has been this long), but this insisted on being written.
> 
> While this isn't what lilbasthet asked for, I hope it will do in part-payment until I get round to the Mycroft and Lestrade on holiday story she asked for.

　

　

By Friday London was sweltering in a heatwave that, for once, coincided with the school holidays. Humidity was at ninety seven per cent, the temperature was ninety two degrees in the shade and 'news' being in short supply, the weather had been the focus of every broadcast for the last three days. While Westminster had more or less emptied for the summer recess, the rest of the population grew increasingly irritable as workplaces lucky enough to have air-conditioning found their systems failing, the parks filled to bursting point and cold drinks doubled in price. Ice-cream sellers saw the profits soar. The transport system crumbled: roads melted; railway lines buckled; bus engines overheated; and tube trains broke down. The incidence of domestic violence cases and burglaries rose by twenty three per cent

Even Sherlock's energy levels had dimmed a little, much to John's relief. He arrived home from the clinic, pink, perspiring and swearing about the idiots who gave themselves heatstroke by sunbathing at midday. The flat was airless and had the dry, musty smell of old bones - he made a mental note to check under the furniture - and Sherlock was muttering to himself as he tossed papers over his shoulder.

"What've you lost?" asked John with resignation as he came back from taking a shower, his hair still wet.

"My notes on that experiment I did with the growth of mould on - "

"You are _not_ filling the flat with plates of rotting sausages in this heat. D'you fancy going out for a meal? My treat."

"We can't. Mycroft's coming round."

"Which is usually a signal for you to leave. What's changed?"

All activity stopped as Sherlock looked up, his expression unexpectedly serious. "He hasn't been the same since I got back. I don't know if he's ill, tired, or just unhappy."

"There's no 'just' about being unhappy." The smile left John's eyes. Sherlock had only been back seven weeks and many of the cracks were only papered over. "Once I've got over the euphoria of you being alive I'm going to - "

"I know," said Sherlock peaceably, gravitating to where John stood. "I couldn't think of another way to keep the three of you alive and safe. Next time - "

"There won't be a next time," said John firmly. "One criminal mastermind per consulting detective, that's the rule. But if one does turn up, you tell me and we'll sort it out together. I couldn't survive another..." He fell silent, looking at something only he could see.

Sherlock gave him an awkward pat. "I wouldn't care to go through that again myself," he confessed. He smiled when John leant against him and tucked an arm around John's midriff. He had never understood the importance of touch until those touch-starved months in exile. He hummed to himself - something new, celebratory. He might play it to John tonight. He kissed the back of John's neck, lingering there, sucking in his scent beneath the shampoo and shower gel.

"Let's go to bed, eat later," said John roughly.

"Mycroft will be here soon," remembered Sherlock, moving away from temptation.

"Mycroft can go fuck himself," growled John.

Sherlock shot him an anxious look.

John shook his head in immediate reassurance and patted him on the shoulder. "It's fine. We're fine. So... Mycroft's unhappy." For the life of him he couldn't hide his lack of concern.

"John, none of what happened was his fault. It was mine. Mycroft didn't led Moriarty to me, Moriarty had already targeted me."

"I know," admitted John. He wondered how he could have missed spotting Sherlock's protective streak even before... He still shied away from thinking about what in his mind he termed The Fall. To have jumped, to have made a conscious decision to jump, no matter what protections were supposedly in place. The horror of it haunted him still.

Of course, Sherlock's protective streak didn't manifest itself the way most people's did. But then Sherlock rarely behaved the way people thought he should.

"The fact remains, Mycroft told me he was responsible." While his tone was moderate, John's expression was unforgiving.

"That's because he still blames himself for miscalculating because he's arrogant enough to believe he should be above making mistakes. I underestimated Moriarty, too," added Sherlock earnestly. His hair dishevelled, there was a smut high on one cheek-bone.

John licked the side of his thumb and rubbed away the dirt. "We've got to start dusting again. I told you Mrs Hudson wouldn't keep doing it once the novelty of having you back had worn off."

"Torturing the elderly, children... breaking into the Tower. It was all a game to him. Though it is a pity all the interesting murders dried up with Moriarty's death," Sherlock added with a trace of wistfulness.

"One's bound to come along soon," soothed John.

One thought led to another.

"Have you heard from Greg recently?" John added. "Only he looked terrible the last time I saw him."

"I called him while you were in th shower," said Sherlock, his manner off-hand.

Undeceived, John's eyes narrowed. "What have you done?"

" _Nothing_ ," said Sherlock indignantly. "I'm just practising my people- person skills."

"Oh, God, this won't turn out well." But John grinned and patted Sherlock again. "Stick to practising on me, it's safer."

"It's certainly more rewarding."

"How was Greg?"

"Different. I thought it might be because I lied to him but... Nothing's the same," Sherlock burst out.

"No," agreed John. "It's not all bad though." He waggled his eyebrows and had the satisfaction of seeing the tension leave Sherlock's face.

"No," acknowledged Sherlock, with one of his half-smiles. "Not all bad."

Yet to accustom himself to the novelty, John watched while Sherlock collected up the papers he had scattered across the floor. John doubted this tidy phase would last long, in fact it would be a relief when it stopped - proof that they really were getting back to normal. Not that he planned to tell Sherlock that.

Sherlock had even gone shopping last week. Of course, he hadn't come back with anything as useful as food, but he was trying.

"I couldn't believe my eyes when I caught a glimpse of Mycroft last week," said Sherlock, tossing some pages back onto the floor when he couldn't find what he was looking for. "He was wearing black shoes with a brown suit - and completely the wrong tie."

"Shocking," said John, straight-faced.

Sherlock gave him a look of fond exasperation. "Which you would know if you listened to my advice."

"I thought you liked this tee shirt."

"I like what's underneath it better." They gravitated towards each other again.

Sherlock's hand whipped back to his side when there was a pointed cough behind them. His back to the door, John hastily rezipped.

"The door was open. Have I come at a bad time?" asked Mycroft, but his voice lacked its usual note of acidic mockery and his expression was so blank it was close to vacuous.

"Come in," said John, pulling a face at Sherlock. But when he finally turned around his reserve melted away. Sherlock was right, Mycroft looked... frayed, even without the dampening effect of the heatwave.

"It must be hot, you're carrying your jacket," said Sherlock.

"And you're stating the obvious because?" Mycroft hung his jacket over the back of a dining chair, then sank onto the nearest armchair with none of his usual precision, or care for the crease in his trousers. His ice-blue shirt clung to him as he unfastened his cufflinks and rolled the sleeves up to mid forearm, before unfastening his tie and unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt.

Sherlock gave him an intent look but said only: "I'll make tea." He disappeared with some haste.

Mycroft glanced at John. "Is the world coming to an end?"

"You'd know better than us. He probably wants something. Air-conditioning broken?"

"The temperature in the room reached one hundred and twenty one degrees. At least it kept the meeting shorter than it might otherwise have been."

"They say the weather will break over the weekend."

"Ah, that good old standby, the weather. What would we British talk about without it," said Mycroft, the familiar acid returned to his voice.

"John! We're out of milk. Come with me to make sure I get the right kind. Mycroft, _do not_ go through my papers while we're gone."

"I can safely promise I won't touch a thing. This emergency..."

"Less of one now. We won't be long."

Heavy-eyed, Mycroft nodded and watched them leave with something approaching relief. Once he was alone, his shoulders slumped. He leant forward, his elbows supported on his knees, his hands dangling motionless between them as he stared into middle distance.

His one desire was to think about nothing. Just for a while.

Losing track of time, he didn't look up when the door was flung open.

"What's so urgent that you call me in the middle of - ? Mycroft," Lestrade recognised, his voice flattening.

Mycroft shot to his feet and for a moment his expression was nakedly revealing.

"Greg - Detective Inspector," he amended, flattening emotion from his voice.

"Sherlock called. Said there was an emergency. He wouldn't say what. Obviously one of his little jokes. I'm sure I'll appreciate it one day."

Mycroft flinched, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I can only apologise." Beneath Gregory's fragile control he saw an exhausted man trying to disguise how unhappy he was. He closed his hand over a chair back, his knuckles yellowing with the pressure he was exerting.

"Well, I'll be off. You look terrible," Lestrade added roughly, as if the words had been dragged from him.

"It's been a long, hot week. And you?"

"Couldn't be better. Tell me, when did you know Sherlock was alive?" Lestrade ask abruptly, his voice flat and devoid of warmth.

That the last question he had expected so long after the event, Mycroft forced himself to meet those damnably honest eyes. "Almost from the beginning."

"Whose idea was it to lie to everyone?"

"I take full responsibility for - "

"That wasn't what I asked." It was very much the hard-edged voice of Detective Inspector Lestrade questioning a known rapist, not his warm-hearted lover.

Ex-lover, Mycroft reminded himself drearily. He could hardly hear above the thump of his pulse in his ears.

"No, it wasn't," he acknowledged. "It was, however, necessary. I thought Sherlock explained."

"Oh, he did. He claimed it was all his idea."

"I take full responsibility for everything that occurred. In similar circumstances I would do it again."

Lestrade nodded, as if Mycroft had just confirmed something, turned on his heel and left without another word.

Stranded, Mycroft stared at the empty doorway. By the time he thought to move to the window there was no sight of Lestrade on the street below.

Rather than his usual casually rumpled style, Gregory had looked...crumpled. Driven. And beneath his obvious anger, deeply unhappy. He was smoking again. And he looked as if he had forgotten what a good night's sleep felt like.

Mycroft no longer knew if he had made the right decision when he had ended their relationship with such brutal abruptness. He seemed to have lost the ability for rational thought where Gregory was concerned, so terrified that he would be killed because of their relationship that he hadn't given Gregory's work with Sherlock a thought. And because of that Gregory had almost died.

Tired almost beyond bearing, Mycroft leant forward until his damp forehead was pressed against the wall as he tried to concentrate on anything but Gregory Lestrade.

　

Lestrade's return to 221b was a great deal quieter than his exit. He paused in the open doorway when he saw Mycroft motionless beside the window, his back to the room. Lestrade took several steadying breaths, still trying to damp down the anger which had roared through him long after he had believed he had dealt with it.

Mycroft, who rarely missed a trick, gave no sign of having heard him return so Lestrade allowed himself to study him, as he hadn't before.

Mycroft had lost weight in the months since he'd seen him last. And the man who projected power in the same way that Sherlock gave off energy, looked as if he had no reserves left.

"When you kicked me out you lied, didn't you. You were scared. Of what Moriarty would do to me, if he found out about us," said Lestrade abruptly.

Mycroft flinched at the sound of his voice but made no immediate attempt to turn to acknowledge him.

"Of course I lied," he said, his roughened voice unfamiliar. "I knew what would hurt you the most and I used it, sot you wouldn't attempt to see me again. It never occurred to me that Moriarty would still target you through your relationship with Sherlock. Not the first time I've been wrong. In fact I seem to be making a habit of it."

Mycroft turned to face Lestrade then, exposing his distress, the intensity of the want in his eyes, and his expectation of both being met with Lestrade's derision - at best.

It was suddenly difficult to breath, the atmosphere too dense, and Lestrade was terrified of getting this wrong. But the idea of Mycroft at a loss and so emotionally vulnerable, hurting because of him, wasn't to be born.

"So Moriarty was the _only_ reason you kicked me out?"

Mycroft's mouth tightened for a moment. "Of course. I'm sorry for what I said to you. More than I know how to express. But in similar circumstances I would do it again to keep you safe."

"Because as a grown man holding down a responsible job I couldn't possibly... " Lestrade stopped when he saw the expression on Mycroft's face.

"Never mind that now," amended Lestrade, the hard, unfamiliar lines of his face easing. "I get it. I do. And God knows you warned me you were crap at relationships."

"I wish it were otherwise."

"I can see that. These months apart felt as if they were killing me. You too, by the look of you. I missed you so bloody much." Lestrade's roughened voice broke on the last word.

Mycroft experienced a flare of irritation with Gregory for not handling the separation - split - better. His dry eyes burned, then prickled, his throat tightening. He was obviously coming down with some damn virus. His hands were damp, his mouth was dry and all he could see, all he could think about, was how unhappy he had made the person who mattered the most to him. Then he was fragmenting, splintering into smaller and smaller pieces and suddenly Gregory was in front of him and there was nothing to hold on to except Gregory's broad shoulders.

A harsh sound between protest and pain escaped Mycroft and it was difficult to breathe for the pressure building.

Then he was enfolded in the warmth and certainty and strength of the only person who had ever completed him and for the first time in his adult life Mycroft enjoyed the luxury of surrendering to superior forces.

　

"If I'd had any idea they would take this long to sort themselves out I would never have done it," grumbled Sherlock, toying with John's teaspoon. "They can't have _that_ much to talk about."

"I very much doubt if they're talking," said John in amusement.

"Then what are they doing?"

"Probably having make-up sex."

"Oh please," said Sherlock with a shudder. "That's my brother you're talking about. In our flat? It's disgusting!"

"Shocking," agreed John, loving him so much it hurt.

Sherlock as Cupid, who would have thought?

"Oh, wait, the door's opening." Sherlock took one look at the two dishevelled figures and groaned.

"I thought you wanted to get them back together."

"I might have toyed with the idea. But that doesn't mean I wanted a ringside seat. "You'll have to change our sheets. Scrap that, the bed."

"No I won't," said John, watching Lestrade emerge onto the street a pace ahead of Mycroft. He had Mycroft's jacket slung over his shoulder and Mycroft's hand in his own as he led them to the black car illegally parked a few yards down the road. Greg looked ten years younger and Mycroft... He hadn't realised Mycroft knew how to smile like that. "Neither of them are up to - Oh."

As they watched Mycroft raised their linked fingers to kiss the back of Lestrade's hand without awareness that anyone else existed. Lestrade's face lit up when he smiled before he nudged Mycroft back against the car door, one knee between Mycroft's legs as he leant in until they were welded together.

Their first kiss was almost chaste, the second less so; by the third they were kissing as if the end of the world was nigh.

"That decides it," said Sherlock, getting to his feet with decision.

"What are you going to do?" asked John warily. He didn't fancy their chances if Sherlock was thinking of trying to get between the two lovers who had yet to come up for air, oblivious to the car horns and shouted comments from passing traffic - some encouraging, some less benign.

"Book us into the most expensive hotel I can find. We'll send the bill to Mycroft," Sherlock added gleefully.

***

Two days later Mycroft and Lestrade paid an unannounced call to 221b.

Lestrade marched up to Sherlock, held his startled face between his palms, and planted a smacking kiss on each cheek, then full on his open mouth.

"You great big romantic you!"

"John!" cried Sherlock, his eyes wild.

"You got yourself into this," said John cheerfully. He never tired of seeing a flustered Sherlock.

He glanced at Mycroft, trying not to smile.

"Certainly not," said Mycroft repressively but his quirking mouth and smiling eyes betrayed him.

In the normal course of events John paid as little attention as was possible to Mycroft. It was rare to see anything approaching a smile on his face; today he was more relaxed than he had ever seen him. He looked young, and somehow defenceless, as if various guards had fallen way with nothing to replace them.

John experienced a twinge of what he belatedly recognised as guilt. "I think I owe you an apology," he said, ignoring Sherlock, who was ranting at Lestrade, who was tuning him out with the ease of long practice.

"On the contrary, John. I am wholly in your debt. Although how you put up with him."

"I might say the same thing to Greg."

"Indeed you might," said Mycroft, his gaze moving to Lestrade.

As if aware of it, Lestrade turned and came over to him. "Home?" he said, his hand in the small of Mycroft's back, stroking him gently.

"Bed," corrected Mycroft.

"I may vomit," warned Sherlock.

"Then we'll leave you to John's tender mercies." Without warning Mycroft turned back to kiss his brother on the forehead. "Thank you, Sherlock."

They were gone before Sherlock thought to react.

"Oh, stop whingeing," said John cheerfully. "I'll kiss it better, how's that?"

"I know what I'd rather you kissed."

"Me too. Bed it is then."

　


End file.
